


Icicles and Ash

by alanabloom



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: F/M, Red Dragon Spoilers, shamelessly reconciles my ship with book canon, tra la la
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-20
Updated: 2013-06-20
Packaged: 2017-12-15 12:40:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,591
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/849676
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alanabloom/pseuds/alanabloom
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <em>For a second Will can't stop staring at Alana, like he's afraid she's just a hallucination, an effect of the drugs that will disappear the second as he blinks, but in the next instant he becomes acutely, painfully aware of the state of his face. Will ducks his head, hot shame burning his chest. It's silly, but in that moment he may as well be right back in his living room, more than four years ago, kissing her to try to erase the fact that she knew he was hallucinating, or in the hospital, after Hannibal's attack, shutting down or even lashing out because he hated that she had to see him so weak.</em>
</p><p>End of Red Dragon, plus fills in some gaps between the show's current timeline and where the book picks up.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Icicles and Ash

**Author's Note:**

> Okay so this is my vague attempt at dealing with "Will's eventual wife" issue that hovers over my beloved ship. To be honest, it doesn't make me feel great about Alana's long term life prospects. But I'm not cool with that, so I'm writing this. It kinda merges _Red Dragon_ canon and TV show canon (doesn't fit book canon exactly, obviously, since Alan Bloom is in Red Dragon and - for the purposes of this fic - Alana wouldn't be, but book canon is already gonna be changed because of the elaborate backstory slash it's my fic I do what I want etc etc). 
> 
> If you're unfamiliar, or need a refresher, basically all you need to know is: at the end of _Red Dragon_ , Will is in the hospital after being attacked and stabbed in the face by another serial killer, three years after he caught and was disemboweled by Hannibal Lecter. Will met his wife, Molly, a year after that incident, but at the end of RD their marriage is strained and it's implied she may or may not leave Will once his face is fixed. Also, Will can't talk much at the moment, and is communicating with visitors on a notepad.

There isn't much to do in the hospital except wait for the next visiting period. They've been upped to fifteen minutes, still every four hours. So Will waits. Molly had left her last visit by instructing him to sleep, but he hasn't yet made the attempt. Too afraid of what dreams await him.

When the visiting period looms close, Will does the little he can to prepare. He tears out the used sheets of his small notepad, his only method of communicating at the moment, and tucks them in the back; he'll use the flip side of the pages when he runs out of paper. He pauses on one sheet, empty except for his _I love you_ , written to Molly. He registers again that she didn't respond. 

That page he crumples.

He steals a look at the clock. Nearly time now. Will grabs his pen and settles against his pillow. Jack Crawford has gone back to DC, with promises of visiting again this weekend, so there's no real sense of anticipation of his visitor. It can only be Molly. Here to smile and hold his hand and keep her eyes on his face for five seconds at a time before they skirt away, to stick it out through his recovery and pretend things haven't changed between them.

He hears footsteps approach the room, and he fixes the eye not swollen shut on the door, waiting for his wife.

Then the door opens, and the world tilts on its axis. 

Alana Bloom is standing there.

Will's insides contract, and he lets out a sharp, strangled sound, the loudest noise he's produced since he woke up. 

He hasn't seen her in two and a half years. She's still beautiful, of course, and she looks nervy and a bit disoriented, with an overnight bag slung over her shoulder, but as soon as she looks at him her face collapses. A myriad of emotions flicker across her expression: pain and concern and tenderness and something almost like wonder, as though in spite of the circumstances she can't believe he's actually in front of her.

For a second Will can't stop staring at her, like he's afraid she's just a hallucination, an effect of the drugs that will disappear the second he blinks, but in the next instant he becomes acutely, painfully aware of the state of his face. Will ducks his head, hot shame burning his chest.

It's silly, but in that moment he may as well be right back in his living room, more than four years ago, kissing her to try to erase the fact that she knew he was hallucinating, or in the hospital, after Hannibal's attack, shutting down or even lashing out because he hated that she had to see him so weak.

He'd always been that way with Alana, and there were times he'd been horrible to her because of it. It made little sense; at that time in his life, she was one of the only people who never looked at him like he was some broken, pitiable thing, and yet he could never quite believe it. He'd put Alana on a such a pedestal, had taught himself to think of her as unattainable, and it meant Will had never quite been able to believe she could love him if she saw him at his worse.

But even now, with two and a half years and mountains of baggage between them, she isn't looking away. She hasn't flinched. Alana closes the door behind her and steps into the room, stopping at the foot of his hospital bed.

"Will..." 

That's all it takes, the achingly familiar weight of his name from her voice, to send him spinning right back into it. It's like hearing a song you once loved but haven't thought of in years unexpectedly on the radio, the way the lyrics and rhythm and feeling come rushing back. Will's heart feels too big for his chest. He's overwhelmed by her.

Her name claws its way up his throat, burning his tongue, but of course it turns to ash on his lips. He's yet to be this frustrated with his inability to speak, but he wants this. It's been so long since he had occasion to say her name.

Stupidly, Will grabs his notepad, the pen slipping in his grip as, in lieu of saying it, he scrawls her name, though the habitual rise and fall of the pen isn't the same: _Alana_. She leans forward, anticipating a message, but after a beat Will simply rips the page, realizing how ridiculous it would seem to show her a piece of paper with only her own name. 

His pen hovers, and after a second he writes _Hey, stranger._

She has to come closer to read it, to the side of his bed, and her eyes fill with tears even as she smiles. "Hey, yourself." 

Will waves a hand at the vacant chair at his bedside, and Alana sits down as Will scribbles out a question.

_How did you know?_

"Jack told me he was asking for your help." Just the mention of Jack sets her lips into a thin, annoyed line, and Will feels a twitch that could be a smile at the familiarity of the expression. "We argued for a _long_ time, and by the time it was over, I told him the only reason he and I were still on speaking terms was so he could keep me updated on how it's going." The irritation fades from her eyes, her face crumpling just a little, and she whispers, "This wasn't a phone call I wanted to get."

She lifts a hand toward him, like she's going to thread her fingers through his curls - she used to do that a lot - but stops halfway to him, unable to decide if that's crossing a line. For a moment her hand hovers strangely in midair. 

Something tightens in Will's gut, and the strength of his need startles him; for just a second, he's sure he'll fall apart if she doesn't touch him. 

Alana's eyes meet his, and maybe she sees that, or maybe she simply needs it herself, because she follows through on the gesture, tangling her hand in his hair, touch infinitely gentle. Will closes his good eye, relief rippling through him, and after a moment he scribbles on the pad _I missed you_. He thinks for a second, then crosses out the _ed_. He misses her, present tense, even as she's right in front of him. 

The message accurate now, he turns the notepad to show Alana. She stares at it for a long time, then looks back at him, blinking back tears as she manages a tremulous, close mouthed smile. "Me, too," she whispers, and he can hear the truth of it. 

Will turns the pad again, writing underneath it _I'm sorry_. He hesitates, then underlines it. 

He shows her. Alana blinks, and one of the tears clinging to her eyelashes escapes and rolls down her cheek. She withdraws her hand from his head. Will immediately feels bereft, but she quickly claims his hand in hers, locking their fingers together and squeezing softly. "Me, too."

He wants to write something else, tell her she has nothing to be sorry for, that it was all his fault, the whole thing, but Will's reluctant to let go of her hand. 

They're quiet for a moment, then, "I don't like seeing you in the hospital." She tries to smile, but her voice is thick with tears. Will knows what she's thinking about; this scenario, her by his bedside, is far too familiar.

 

*

 

They hadn't been together long.

The feelings were nothing new, and most agreed the relationship was a long time coming, but still. It was early days. Still dizzying and lovely and precious. 

To Will it was something like magic. He told her once, early on, one of the mornings when he was still reveling in waking up beside her, that she made him feel like someone else. She'd given him a slow, lazy grin and rolled on top of him, saying that she hoped not, because she rather liked Will Graham. Then she'd kissed him, so he'd never told her what he meant: that she made him someone better, someone _happy_.

But then but then but then...

The Chesapeake Ripper. Hannibal. One in the same. He'd gutted Will with a linoleum knife, and that which had come together began to slowly fall apart.

Will was in a coma for the first few weeks, and it was Jack who later filled him on how Alana spent that time. For the first five days she never left the hospital, didn't shower and barely slept or ate - though to be fair, none of them were eating much, following the report on Hannibal and the memory of all those meals. It was only Jack's reminder of the dogs that sent her away from the hospital, twice a day, for brief periods, just long enough to get to Will's house and look after them. 

She was the first thing he saw when he woke up.

He still had months at the hospital, recovering. A chunk of that was spent on the psych floor. That was the worst time, and his shame often made him silent or rude. But Alana never faltered. She came every day, as though everything else in her life had simply shut down. And he was so unfair, so awful to her sometimes even as he clung to her, using her as the only source of strength he had. He wouldn't have survived without her, without the promise of picking up where they left off.

But of course that wasn't how it worked.

She started living in Will's house while he was in the hospital: it was a shorter drive back and forth to visit him, and it made it easier for her to take care of the dogs. Sad, that Will wasn't even there when she moved into his home.

Alana couldn't forgive herself for her part in what happened. She'd been the one to bring Hannibal into Will's life. She'd known him longer than any of them, but she hadn't seen it. She'd still trusted him with Will's mind, had thought she was recommending the best. 

There were days the guilt consumed her, gnawed at her, broke her heart. And there were days Will could convince himself that it was the only reason she stayed.

After three and a half months, Will came home, a home that was now _theirs_. And they tried so hard, but they were seeped in tragedy now, heavy with it. The sex was panicked and crazy and desperate. The heat wasn't gone, far from it, but by the end of it it always felt like they were crumbling to ash, becoming _less_ somehow.

But they loved each other, fiercely; a bruising, heavy love that sometimes veered too close to _need_. 

Will's trauma, his brokenness, was a bad match for Alana's guilt. He picked fights, and they argued over whether she deserved better, whether she was there out of obligation. They lost the knack for making each other happy, or maybe just the ability to be happy at all. 

He's the one who finished it, in the end. Will told himself it was for her benefit, the he was letting her off the hook and she'd be secretly relieved...but the look on her face when he finally said it out loud had demolished that theory.

There were so many strings tying them to together, countless binding ties, and Will knew he couldn't pick and choose: he had to sever them all. So he didn't just leave her, he left everything, his entire life. He moved to Florida, a joke at first, spat out as a way to reinforce the fact of his retirement to Jack Crawford, but chosen because it was as good a place as any. The _where_ didn't matter. Only the distance.

He loved Alana but he left her anyway.

When he met Molly he fell in love with her for everything she wasn't. She had nothing to do with the FBI or murder or Hannibal Lecter. She knew of his past as a scar and a story, knew of his instability as a vague, understated confession. She hadn't seen him at his worst. Hadn't live through that with him. She was the future, and all Will wanted was to be done with the past.

But Will Graham had loved Alana Bloom for a long time, loved her intensely and entirely, and that love had never gone away. That wasn't how it worked. It had simply frozen somewhere inside him, contained, like an icicle. Some days he'd brush against the sharp end; some days a sliver would break off and puncture him, prompted by anything really: a whiff of a smell, a song on the radio, a vague image in a dream...once, in public, a stranger's laugh had sent his head whipping around, eyes darting wildly for someone who had no reason to be there. But for the most part the icicle was simply hanging, frozen and harmless, just waiting for a thaw. 

She smiles at him now, tearful, her hand in his, and Will melts. Simple as that. 

 

*

"I'm so sorry I'm late, I was - "

Molly pulls up short, halfway through the door of Will's hospital room, obviously not expecting to find someone else there. "Oh."

Alana drops Will's hand quickly, not wanting to find out if he would let go himself. Her throat narrows as she openly stares at the woman in front of her. Will's wife. She knows about his marriage, of course, has been all too aware of it for two years, but confronted with the reality of it is like slamming against a wall in pitch black dark: jarring and painful. She'd forgotten to prepare herself for this on the plane ride, worry for Will's life having taken precedence. 

There's a tense silence for a beat, but Molly's the first to realize that Will doesn't have the capacity to make introductions, and she steps forward, a puzzled smile on her face. "Hello. I'm Molly Graham." 

It's innocuously spoken, Molly's voice unconscious of the weight of her married name, but it stings. Of course it does. Alana's frozen for a second, but quickly recovers, standing up and walking forward, her hand extended, apologizing for her rudeness. "Sorry. Alana Bloom."

" _Oh_ ," Molly's eyes widen in recognition; there's weight to that name, too. "Right." She glances at Will, then back to Alana. There's an awkward silence. "Did Jack...?"

"Yes. Sorry." Alana has no idea why she's apologizing so much. "I made him keep me updated on the case."

"Of course." 

Another silence. Alana casts a look at Will over her shoulder, something regretful in her expression, before turning back to Molly and saying, "I'm sorry, I'll go. I didn't realize his visiting time was so short. I don't want to get in your way."

Molly's eyes flick automatically to Will, and she sees the instant flash of disappointment and near panic on his face. She shoots him a small, bittersweet smile, then turns back to Alana. "No. You stay. You flew all this way, and I'm sure he's a little sick of one sided conversations with me." Molly gives Alana a small, genuine smile, laced with something she can't quite identify. "I'm sure it'll do him good."

She smiles at Will, giving him a little wave, and then sweeps out of the room, leaving them alone again.

Will avoids looking at Alana, oddly guilty. He toys with his notepad, debating writing another _Sorry_ , as if he should apologize for the mere fact of Molly, especially when he checked Alana's left hand for a ring within the first minute she'd been here, and been absurdly, irrationally relieved when there was none.

Alana doesn't return to her chair, just hovers at the foot of the bed, looking suddenly uncomfortable. Will taps his pen against the notepad, desperate to recover. His good eye darts to the clock. Only six minutes left. Panic swells in him again, and he's in danger of ruining the last six minutes by spending them dreading what comes after.

He taps his pen on the plastic edge of the hospital bed so she'll look over at him, then scribbles quickly on the pad. _Will you come back?_

She bites her lip as she reads, hesitating before answering, "I'm going to check into a hotel for the night. But...I don't know, Will, I don't want to take up time from your, uh. Your wife." She winces a little. It sounds like the word is something she has to extract from her throat, a stone she swallowed, scraping and wounding on its way out. 

He shakes his head vehemently, writing again: _Jack came._

She gives him a small, crooked smile at that. "Alright. I'll try. It's just..." She laughs dryly. "It's a little awkward, Will."

The pen moves hurriedly. _But it's so good to see you._ As Will holds it up to her, he think idly that it's probably a good thing he can't speak at the moment; she'd hear such a raw neediness in his voice if he said it out loud. When Alana looks back up at him, Will gives her what passes for a smile in his current condition, writing messily _Almost makes it worth it_.

Alana's face darkens. "Don't say that," she says quietly. She sighs, and sinks back into the chair, raking a hand through her dark hair. "I probably shouldn't even be here, but when Jack told me what happened it was like...that day, all over again. I had to see you."

This time, Will reaches for _her_ hand, bracing the notepad on his leg so he can write: _I'm glad you're here._

What he means, of course, is _please don't go_. _Don't leave me_. But he doesn't write that, because it's entirely unfair. He's the one who left. He's the one who's married. He can't ask her for anything.

They sit there for a minute, not speaking (or writing). Then, Will rifles through the notepad, until he finds the right note, the one that reads _I miss you. I'm sorry._ He rips it off and hands it to her, because really it's worth repeating; it says so much about what he's feeling right now. That's the good thing about communicating this way; it eliminates deflections and idle chat, renders subtext ineffectual. You choose the words that are important. You say what matters.

Alana takes the paper, then ducks her head, but not before Will sees the tears dripping down her face. He can hear the soft, erratic breathing as she tries to keep herself from crying, and he squeezes the hand holding hers, moving his thumb in gentle circles over her knuckles. 

After awhile she looks up at him, her eyes wet and vivid. "Goddamn it, Will."

In that moment he wants her, wants _them_ , so badly it burns his chest. He wants to beg her to stay, to promise things will be different, that he will revel in her presence and never once wish she wasn't here to see him like this. He wants to tell her that Molly quite probably doesn't love him anymore, that she has already sent Willy to Oregon and when Will's face is fixed she will probably follow. 

As it is he grabs for his pen with his free hand, again bracing his pad against the bedsheet and writing. But the moment of weakness passes, and he tears the sheet out, tucking it in the back of the notebook with other stray pages and instead simply writes _Thank you_. That he shows to her.

He means it as an all encompassing thanks: for coming to see him now, but also for saving him back then, even when he had no ability to appreciate it. 

A nurse comes in then. "That's fifteen," she says brusquely.

Alana lifts their joined hands and presses her lips to his knuckles, and Will's immediately sick with dread for the moment she walks out the door. When she gently disentangles their hands, he scrambles for his notepad, finding the _Will you come back?_ note and brandishing it, his good eye wide and insistent.

"Yes," she promises. Her voice is tight. "Bye, Will."

She closes the door behind her, and Will feels the emptiness when she goes.

 

*

 

Four hours later, the latest of the visiting periods, Molly walks into her husband's room to find Will finally, blessedly, asleep. His notepad is open on his chest, and his bed is covered with stray bits of paper that have fallen out of the back. 

Gently, being careful not to bear down on Will, she gathers the pages, eyes skimming the words: she recognizes case related queries for Jack, some answers to doctor's questions about his pain level, several notes that had been shown to her. But one catches her eye, the page Will wrote for Alana but never showed her. 

_I screwed everything up so badly before. If we could do it again, I promise I'd be better._

Molly reads it three times. Then she tucks it into her pocket, casting a sad look at her sleeping husband. When she leaves (and Molly isn't sure when that _if_ made the permanent transition to _when_ ), maybe she'll give this to Will. Remind him it's not just her. That there are other things he wants, too.


End file.
